


the heavens are a burden

by cedarmoons



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Reunions, SOLAVELLAN HELLSPIRAL, Spoilers, Trespasser DLC spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 19:03:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4717064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarmoons/pseuds/cedarmoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fen’Harel’s breath caught hard in his lungs.</p><p>She could have said anything else, and it would not have stunned him into such silence. He had prepared his answers for her shouted questions. He had steeled himself for her shouts, her blows, her curses, and he deserved them all.</p><p>He did not deserve… this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the heavens are a burden

**Author's Note:**

> "i won't write my own version of the dlc trailer," i told myself. "everyone and their mother's already done it. no way jose. i won't do it."
> 
> I LIED. ALL ABOARD THE ANGST TRAIN.
> 
> note: reading is supplemented by reading [this](http://pinacoladamatata.tumblr.com/post/128012787092/as-much-i-want-my-lavellan-to-be-angry-and-scream) comic and listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xIuqnsaa2UE) song on repeat. :)

lift with your knees, atlas,  
the heavens are a burden  
but in the starlit ink of constellations  
you have written:

endure.

\- _[WEIGHT](http://achillics.tumblr.com/post/115020013716/lift-with-your-knees-atlas-the-heavens-are-a)_.

* * *

This was not supposed to happen. Fen’Harel stared at the glowing eluvian before him, a dead Qunari saarebas at his feet. If he had known there was an eluvian in Par Vollen when he’d unlocked its brethren… he should have known.

Perhaps then the savages would not be invading the whole of Thedas, spreading their toxic ideology in a wave of blood and force.

He heard an eluvian sputter behind him, the tell-tale whisper that meant someone had passed through. He turned, staff in hand, ready to tear apart another contingent of Qunari—and stiffened when someone far more slight stumbled through the mirror instead.

 _No_.

She was meant to be in the Dirth, repelling a wave with the Orlesian army. She was meant to be _safe_. _Fool,_ he cursed himself, bitterly. _Fool, fool, fool!_ Again, his actions—his mistakes—had caught her in their grasp and dragged her into danger.

This was not supposed to happen.

He watched her move carefully through the Qunari frozen in stone, her bow drawn, and stiffened when she stopped, lifting her head. He stepped back and turned around, hoping against hope she hadn’t seen him but knowing she had. He rested his staff against the eluvian frame and clasped his hands behind his back, his mind racing.

What would she say to him? She would hate him, surely, for leaving her and the Inquisition with more questions than answers. She would despise him for his lies, as surely as she had despised Blackwall for his. She had been furious in the glen; he was certain that she would be just as angry, if not more so, this time around.

He steeled himself for the inevitable, and waited.

He heard footsteps upon the grass and frowned, his brow furrowing. That wasn’t right. She was never loud—she was a hunter, trained in silence. She never made a sound when moving unless she wanted to…

Or she was too injured to make the attempt.

His chest seized, and he almost turned before he caught himself. She undoubtedly had the rest of her Inner Circle to care for her—Dorian and Cassandra chief among them. She would not want his concern.

So instead of turning on his heel and inspecting her over, Fen’Harel merely tilted his head, unable even to regard her out of the corner of his eye. “I suspect you have questions,” he said, resisting the urge to flinch at his voice. His words had come out deeper and somehow more sinister. If she’d had doubts about the truth of his ‘Solas’ charade, she certainly had none now.

The quiet, unassuming apostate was gone, and had been gone for two years.

“My heart,” she said, in an anguished whisper.

Fen’Harel’s breath caught hard in his lungs.

She could have said _anything_ else, and it would not have stunned him into such silence. He had prepared his answers for her shouted questions. He had steeled himself for her shouts, her blows, her curses, and he deserved them all.

He did not deserve… this. He did not deserve her love, professed with such sincerity even after these two years. He did not deserve her forgiveness.

“You continue to surprise me, vhenan,” he said, his words just louder than a murmur. He turned, hesitant, hardly daring to hope—and then she had closed the distance between them and thrown herself into his arms. Instinct had him catch her and take a reflexive step back.

But then her arms were wrapped tight around his neck and her chin was resting on his shoulder and nothing else mattered but _her_. Her armor dug into his chest, and her whole body hummed with alarming amounts of magic, but she was warm and real and _she did not hate him_.

He stilled, certain that his mask had slipped and his shock was naked on his face, before he relaxed in her embrace and brought a hand up to cup the back of her head. Her hair was just as soft as he remembered, her jasmine shampoo mixed with petrichor and blood.

He remembered the day he’d woken up and forgotten what she’d smelled like. He’d tried to fall back asleep, to go into the Fade for a pale mimicry of her, for a reminder of anything, but he had been unable to quiet his mind enough to do so. The memory of her shampoo had slipped from his fingers, and he had never had the opportunity to make up for the loss since.

Until today. The simple reminder of how she smelled was enough to bring him to the brink of tears.

He dared to place his other hand on her waist and pull her closer. Dared to brush a halting, hesitant kiss along her temple, no longer marred by her vallaslin. He breathed her in and basked in her presence, allowing himself to relax, temporarily, and focus on nothing but the feel of her pressed against him.

Not even in Arlathan had he felt so at peace.

He felt a raindrop on his forehead, but did not look up. The cloudy sky above them could have unleashed a thunderstorm, and he would have hardly noticed.

Eventually he pulled away, starting when he caught a good glimpse of her for the first time. Her left hand was bare, concealed only by a hunting glove, but the Anchor glowed green even though that. He could see veins of magic crawling up her wrist. Her whole left arm was bursting with emerald light, her skin a thin membrane to keep it from the outside world, and her eyes—her _eyes_.

They were now a sickly, Fade-colored green, and Fen’Harel felt his stomach twist. “The Anchor—” he began. He took hold of her wrist and turned her hand up, dragging a finger along the heel of her palm. Before, she had only a gash to indicate the Anchor’s presence. Now, everything was emerald, the only distinction a deeper shade cutting through the center of her palm. He looked up at her, unable to hide his alarm. “Why is it like this? What has happened?”

She smiled at him, chapped lips lifting over small pearly teeth. Emerald smoke curled from her eyes as she shrugged. The gesture, the easy acceptance of her fate, ate at him. His heart, full of passion and vibrancy and _life_ above all, could not be giving up.

Fen’Harel refocused on the vibrant Anchor, trying to pull some of its power into him. It glowed at his touch, then sparked with a pop of electricity. It did little more than shock his fingertips, but she cried out when it flared, collapsing.

He caught her, horrified, and sank to his knees. Her braid trailed over his arm and she lifted her right hand to his cheek. Brushing her thumb over his cheekbone, she smiled again. “S’okay. It does that.”

“If I had not—” he began, stopping himself. He bitterly cursed himself for crafting this malformed world, cursed himself for the mistakes that had captured this beguiling, beautiful, mortal woman in its net and dragged her into unspeakable danger. Cursed himself for not visiting her dreams, because he had thought distance would be best.

If he had watched over her in the Fade, he may have been able to sense the Anchor’s irregularity, may have been able to stop this… this aberration.

“Stop thinking,” she whispered, her thumb twinging across his lower lip. “Focus on me, sa’lath. I am here. I am with you.”

The Anchor popped again, green sparks showering the grass beneath them, and she cringed. Fen’Harel pressed his hand above her own, cementing her touch against his face. He closed his eyes and turned his head, kissing her palm and weaving healing magic into her body. She sighed, her head rolling against his shoulder. “Ma serannas.”

“Vhenan,” he said. His voice broke. “I do not know how to fix this.”

She was smiling. How could she be smiling, even when she must have been in such indescribable pain? Her Anchored hand lifted up and pulled the scarf from her neck. Fen’Harel watched the movement and stilled when the scarf pulled away to reveal what she was wearing underneath.

His jawbone necklace rested against her chest. The tip of it lay just over her heart.

Fen’Harel bowed his head, unable to stop his brimming tears from falling. The rain began to fall more steadily, a light patter that dusted their robes. “I thought you hated me,” he admitted, in a hushed whisper.

“How could I hate my heart?” she asked, her own voice hitching. Her thumb brushed against his cheekbone again, wiping away a stray tear. “Don’t cry for me, emma lath. You know how weepy I get when I see others cry— _ah!_ ”

She arched in his arms, her teeth gritting as the Anchor sparked. He watched, horrified, as the emerald light crawled up from her shoulder to spread across her collarbone. There was no Breach—his thoughts raced with the spread’s origin and, more importantly, how he could stop it.

No immediate answers came to him, and he hated his ignorance with a breathtaking fervor. Instead of dwelling on his thoughts, he pressed his free hand against her glowing skin, washing healing magic over her. He would have spent all of his mana to save her, if possible.

She sighed, eyes wide and full of undeserved adoration. “I don’t feel any pain,” she whispered. “Vhenan. _Thank you._ ” A tear trickled from the corner of her eye and disappeared into her hair. Fen’Harel bit his lip, his body shuddering with his quiet, suppressed sobs.

She wiped another tear and lifted her faded blue scarf. Fen’Harel took it from her and wrapped it around his neck for her, lifting the fabric to his nose and inhaling hard. “Something to remember me by,” she told him. “S’only fair, since you gave me your necklace.”

“Don’t go,” he pleaded, pressing his nose into her damp hair. The jasmine was fainter, now, the rain almost overpowering all else, but he would be _damned_ if he forgot her scent again. “Please, vhenan. I beg you. Fight this. _Live_.”

She tried to nod, but already the color was leeching from her cheeks. The Anchor pulsed again, and though she did not react, Fen’Harel watched her eyes flare and the taint spread to her neck. “Promise me one thing,” she gasped, swallowing hard.

“Name it.”

“Love again,” she said, and those two words destroyed him utterly.

He laughed, his chuckle turning into a sob. His shoulders shook as he cradled her to him, pressing his lips against the crown of her head. Of course she would ask such a thing. His heart, who always placed others’ welfare above her own—of course her dying wish would be for his well-being. Of course she would care more for his future than her imminent death.

He shook his head. “How shall I? I only have one heart.”

She laughed, and he tucked the sound into the deepest crevices of his heart. “Then I will keep it safe for you,” she said, her voice hitching. “And when we see each other again, I will give it back.”

“Keep it,” he said, hoarsely. “It is yours. To do with as you wish.”

“I’m cold,” she confessed, and he lowered her hands from his face, clasping them between his own. He warmed his hands and rubbed them over hers, tracing each knuckle, each line in her palm. When she sighed, he kissed both her palms. “Thank you, vhenan. Help me up.”

She struggled to sit up, and Fen’Harel aided her, until she sat on his lap and her nose brushed against the underside of his jaw. She turned his chin with her fingertips until his eyes were locked with hers. She closed their distance and pressed her lips against his; his heart somersaulted in his chest and he fell into her embrace with a groan. His hands sank into her hair, savoring the feel of her lips pressed against his, hesitant, soft, and warm.

Their kiss was slow, chaste, but it devastated him. She pulled away, shivering in the rain, and he tucked her head under his chin and held her close. “What can I do?” he asked, one hand on her waist and the other combing fingers through her half-undone braid.

“You’re here. That’s all I need,” she replied, and shivered again. “Just… stay.”

She said it the way she had at Skyhold, as if he’d just finished reading to her in bed, as if she were requesting him to hold her until she slept. Fen’Harel squeezed his eyes shut and kissed her forehead. He massaged warm circles into her hipbone, spreading the heat into the rest of her body.

There was nothing but the rain and her short, ragged breaths. At last, she stilled, and he feared the worst. His lungs seized, tightening until agony spasmed in his chest, but then her head moved and he was able to breathe again.

“Ar lath ma,” she sighed, weakly. She lifted her head and kissed his cheek. “Solas.”

His hand tightened, and he turned to her, shaking his head. “Fen’Harel,” he corrected, his voice whisper-soft. He tensed, preparing for her reaction.

She only gave him a secretive, almost mischievous, smile. A smile that made it seem as though she had known all along.

“Ar lath ma, Fen’Harel,” she replied. The sound of his true name on her lips made his heart pound. He swallowed, and she leaned forward, pecking his lips before tucking her face into the crook of his shoulder.

“Ar lath ma,” he said, and breathed her name as though it were a treasure. He lifted her chin and peppered her face with kisses, murmuring an endearment between each brush of his lips. “Ma vhenan. Ma uthlath. Ma’sal’shiral.”

She chuckled, even as he pressed a kiss to the corners of her lips. “Sweet talker,” she accused, but she smiled, and that sight, too, he would cherish, running it over and over in his mind until it was a permanent memory. Fen’Harel kissed her, sweetly, savoring her taste, savoring her touch, savoring _her_.

As he held her, he reached out to Mythal. _Tell me there’s a way. Tell me I can save her._

 _Oh, Fen_ , Mythal sighed, at the same time she breathed and fell still.

 

The others found the Inquisitor at sunset, her bow and quiver discarded to the side. An enormous black wolf was curled around her body, the Inquisitor’s blue scarf tied around its neck. Her eyes were closed and she leaned against the wolf, her lips curved into a half-smile. It looked like they had stumbled upon the Inquisitor in the midst of a pleasant dream, but every one of them knew better.

The animal let them approach, allowed the Iron Bull to hook his hands under her back and knees and hold her to his chest. In his arms, the Inquisitor looked like a child taking a nap.

As they turned and left, one member of the group stopped. Dorian Pavus turned, regarding the wolf with a sad, thoughtful look. “Did she die alone?” he asked. The wolf’s tail flicked, and it gave an almost imperceptible shake of its head. “Good,” said Dorian, faltering again, unsure what to say.

He adjusted his load—he had taken her bow and quiver, slung it over his shoulder like he’d seen her do a thousand times—and cleared his throat. “You could come with us, you know,” he offered the wolf. It stared at him in silence, slate-blue eyes—eyes he recognized—unreadable. Dorian kept talking anyway. “Help us fight them. Honor her memory.”

The wolf didn’t move. Dorian didn’t move. They stared at each other, the trickle of a nearby creek and the cicadas’ hum breaking the silence. “Dorian!” called Cassandra, near the eluvian. “We must go!”

Dorian stared at the wolf for a few more heartbeats, then turned with a sigh and hurried to catch up with his companions. Cassandra and Bull waited for him, and once he’d closed an acceptable distance they went through the blue mirror.

Just before Dorian stepped through the eluvian, he heard a single, lonely, grief-filled howl.

**Author's Note:**

> "one day i'll write happy solavellan," i tell myself. _DAMMIT._ not today, friends. not today.
> 
> ELVISH:  
> The Dirth - elvish term for Exalted Plains  
> Sa'lath - my one love  
> Ma uthlath - my eternal love  
> Ma'sal'shiral - love of my life; lit. "you are my soul's journey"


End file.
